


close and ready when urgencies happen

by fab_ia



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Murder, Non-Explicit Sex, Religious Guilt, Second Person, Unhealthy Relationships, injuries, non-explicit violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25007041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: a story in parts. one to six.or, warren kepler excels, and warren kepler struggles.
Relationships: Daniel Jacobi & Warren Kepler & Alana Maxwell, Daniel Jacobi/Warren Kepler, Warren Kepler & Alana Maxwell
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	close and ready when urgencies happen

_**one** _

flesh gives way easily, split straight by the cold steel, painting things crimson, a garish abstract. the canvas is your hands, your arms, bared to the elbow with your bunched-up sleeve absorbing more of the gore than you care to admit, settling amongst fibres and staining once-grey fabric almost black. it’s hot and somehow still cold against your skin, smearing against it with every movement, and you grit your teeth and continue on with your task - being an artist, after all, is a job far from clean, and frequently unsanitary. your fingernails are dark, and you wipe the blade off on your pants, leaving a dark smear there, too.

you wouldn't envy the cleanup team on this one.

jacobi looks to you from where he’s elbow-deep in his own tangle of organs, coiling wires formed to his arms as he - spools? unspools? - them, winding them, weaving. he makes a tapestry of destruction as you begin to pace. you feel almost as though you were a caged animal, stretching your legs, teeth bared, ready to snap and lash out at the barest provocation.

“done, sir,” he says. “timer’s going for ten minutes.”

“then i suppose,” you say, relishing in the words as they settle in your mouth, the fleeting moment they linger on your tongue with the burning taste of tobacco, “we had better get our asses in gear. ready, jacobi?”

“yessir,” he says, and you go.

* * *

_**two** _

this time, flesh gives beneath your fingertips. you dig them into his bare skin and he hisses, eyes shut tight for a moment as your nails bite but he opens them again to meet your own steady gaze. you falter for the barest moment, because you know better than anyone the danger that lurks beneath the surface, embers in search of kindling to strike up another blaze. your throat smarts, and you dig your fingers in again, hoping for bruises to linger. hoping for a reminder.

_possessive shit_ , you think you hear him mumble, and you laugh instead of arguing before you seize him up into a kiss, meeting his lips with your own. it’s not gentle, not loving, it’s rough, the kiss of people looking for something carnal over sensual, physicality over passion. this is routine too, now. as routine as waking up in the morning - hotel rooms, unfamiliar sheets, familiar body.

and what feelings do you need when you just have this, when you have wordless trust, when you don’t feel anything but respect for each other but you have this. you _need_ this, the two of you, because who else are you going to get this from - where are you going to find someone who won’t ask questions about the scars that mar your skin? who won’t ask about your bruises and cuts and desperation on days like this?

he bites at your neck and your breath catches in your throat at the threat, the thought of teeth tearing through skin and spilling blood. he laughs, and you laugh, and you don’t know why your stomach twists.

* * *

_**three** _

it’s summer and the air is somewhere between sticky and heavy even with all the windows open as wide as they’ll go, letting in the song of the street and the call of the ocean beyond the boundaries of the city. you press your forehead against the closed door of your bedroom, legs bare except for the shorts you’ve pulled up higher in search of any kind of breeze. the wood’s cold against your skin. you breathe.

“father, father,” you say, the carpet digging into your knees, “i have sinned, i am sinning, and i will sin.”

you imagine the weight of the cross around your throat, against your back, and you move to stare at your palms as though expecting some burning, angry mark to appear there. nothing happens. you wish it would, because then you’d have some reason for this, the bad days, when you have to pray for mercy from someone you don’t know exists.

you lean back and pick up your glass, take a sip. it’s unpleasant - bitter wine, a far cry from the oaky taste of your preferred whiskey, but this moment is about repentance. this is an _apology_ , and you have to do it right.

or… you don’t. not really. you finish the glass and hold it in your mouth for a second before swallowing and shifting, dropping back and onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. it’s cast in a golden glow, sun slowly dipping below the horizon outside. you lay for a long while, watching shadows chase it out until the room cools and is dim, somewhere approaching dark. you sigh, and feel something clutch at your chest once again.

happy sunday.

* * *

_**four** _

jacobi’s nose is bleeding. 

you’re staring at him from your seat beside the target as he comes back from the bathroom, wiping it with the back of a hand and leaning on the bar itself, arms on sticky wood, tapping his card against the reader and accepting the glass with a lazy grin, taking a sip as he turns to lean against it, tipping his head down at you.

you don’t want to know what he did to the other guy.

so you drink your whiskey, far lower quality than you’d usually drink, but you aren’t footing the bill so you’ll take what you can get. the target grins at you, and their thigh is pressed against your leg and they ask how you’re doing, what you want. 

_that’s a pretty loaded fucking question_ , you think, but offer a placating smile in return, and lean into the touch. sometimes, you hate your job. this is one of your times as you nod, say you’ll take the glasses to the bar and smile at them as you go over.

“follow,” you say, under your breath, and jacobi stretches out his back and you know that he’s heard.

* * *

_**five** _

jacobi’s at your apartment, tonight, because he is. there’s no real reason for it but he’s made himself at home on your couch, staring at his phone and ignoring the texts he’s receiving in favour of focusing on facebook. maybe it’s a boyfriend. you don’t know and you definitely, _definitely_ , don’t care.

“are you hungry?” you ask, and he shrugs. “jacobi.”

“i don’t know,” he says. “yeah, whatever.”

“jesus,” you say, but make him a bowl of pasta anyway, more cheese grated on his than there is yours, because that’s how he likes it. jacobi doesn’t thank you, but you didn’t really expect him to, because he never does. he’s rude, and you’re used to it. it’s part of his self-proclaimed charm.

he says nothing, just stares at the bowl, the fork. his phone buzzes in his pocket near-constantly, and his lips curl up a little every time.

“popular,” you say, because you can’t help yourself.

“shut the fuck up,” he says.

“okay,” you say. “are you staying?”

he shrugs again, stabs at the bowl. 

he stays.

* * *

_**six** _

maxwell’s the one tidying up the cut down your side, stitching you back together as some mockery of a classic. jacobi looks half-dead against the white sheets, bandaged and bruised, blood still crusted in his hair. you sit on the shitty couch and you try not to grimace with every touch.

“don’t be a bitch,” she says, digging her nails into your ribs before going back to it. “stop moving.”

“ _maxwell_ ,” you hiss, and she ignores you, because she knows the venom in your voice isn’t real. 

“don’t talk to me,” she says, after she pushes you away, curling her own hands into fists. “don’t say a single word unless it’s how _fucking sorry_ you are about this.”

it wasn’t your fault, but you stay silent as she locks herself in the bathroom anyway.

“it was kinda your fault,” jacobi mumbles, “dickhead.”

“okay.”

“she’ll get over it.”

“ _okay_.”

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'Spill' by sandra mcpherson, found here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/153526/spill
> 
> find me on tumblr @sciencematter  
> writing blog: https://knewtonn.blogspot.com/  
> find a short collection here: https://issuu.com/home/published/love_zine


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